Take a Step Before You Leap
by little-fuzzy-dude
Summary: You try to keep your mind on the task at hand, but it keeps wanting to wander to why you need to make the trap perfect rather than actually making it perfect. You can feel the echo of the press of a bill against your cheek, and… no, you're not thinking about this. Written for Perryshmirtz Week Day 3: Fears


You scowl at the mess sitting in front of you. Nothing's working. This trap has to be _perfect_, and right now it's only serviceable at best. You turn your wrench a little further, trying to get it _just right_ and…

The trap collapses into a heap on the floor. You growl, a feral noise that tears itself from deep in your throat. It catches you off guard; you haven't done something like that for a long time. Haven't let loose one of the instinctual sounds that bubble up from deep in your chest, from deep in your past.

You force your mind away from your slip. You still have the trap to deal with — now you have to completely rebuild it. You try to keep your mind on the task at hand, but it keeps wanting to wander to _why_ you need to make the trap perfect rather than actually _making_ it perfect. You can feel the echo of the press of a bill against your cheek, and… _no_, you're not thinking about this.

Gritting your teeth, you grab one of the scraps of metal and start fitting the trap back together. You are completely focused on building, on the way each piece fits together, and in no way are you thinking of the brush of fur on your face or the lingering heat trailing behind.

Eventually, you get the trap reassembled. You squint at it. It _might_ be a _bit_ better than when you started, _maybe_, but you can't quite tell. It'd probably be a good idea to take a step back, maybe work on something different for a while. But if you're good at anything (and you really aren't good at much to be honest), you're good at following your bad ideas. You keep working on the trap.

Several hours and three catastrophic disassemblies later, it's exactly how you want it. You back away from the contraption, knowing that the slightest touch will cause the whole thing to collapse _again._

Okay. The trap is perfect, finally. You check the device you assembled last night, sleepless and channeling your insomnia into something productive, but it's fully functional and there's really nothing for you to improve. So. The trap is done, your scheme is ready, now what? You hadn't planned a musical number, but maybe… No, you don't feel like writing any music right now, and even if you did the backup dancers' union gave you a warning last time you tried to call them in on such short notice.

Nothing left to do but wait for today's agent.

You sit on the nearest chair that you're pretty sure isn't trapped and strain your ears for the sound of theme music. Not every agent has a theme, you know, and even those that _do_ have one don't generally play it every time they go thwarting, but it might give you a hint as to who you'll face today. And listening keeps your mind from wandering to the sound of the door slamming, to the empty silence of your apartment.

It takes too long for the sound of someone bursting through your door and into your trap to come. You stand, still facing away from the agent, because you don't want to see who they sent and if you don't look you can pretend everything is normal.

"How _unexpected,"_ you say, vaguely proud of the way your voice doesn't sound shakier than it usually is. "And by _unexpected_ I mean completely—" You turn around for dramatic effect and the words stick in your throat because there he is, all teal and semi-aquatic and _dynamic,_ tangled up in the workings of the trap rather than the trap itself.

He looks up and churrs at you, and you realize that you've been quiet a moment too long to be natural. You clear your throat and turn away.

"Anyway, behold, the De-Feelings-inator!" You gesture grandly at the small ray gun sitting on a pedestal in direct line of sight of the trap and hope that your hands aren't shaking noticeably. "Once I shoot myself with _this,"_ you punctuate the word by picking up the -inator, "I will feel nothing but _pure evil,_ and nothing will stop me from ruling the Tri-State Area!"

You chance a look at him, and he's staring at the De-Feelings-inator with undisguised horror. Good. You ignore the twinge in your chest at his expression, because once you shoot yourself with this it won't matter anymore. He won't be able to play with your feelings anymore because you won't _have_ feelings anymore, and he will no longer distract you from your evil goals with his face and his touch and him _abandoning_ you.

You point the -inator at your chest and close your eyes. Your finger trembles on the trigger in a way you hope he can't see, but before you're able to fire the thing a solid furry weight impacts you from the side and sends you flying.

Disoriented, you don't realize that he clung onto your lab coat and came with you across the room until you feel small, strong hands pulling insistantly at your fingers, trying to pry them off of the -inator. You bring your other hand down on him, yanking the -inator away at the same time, but he is relentless.

He finally gets your fingers to give, peeling them from the hand-grip and flinging the entire -inator away from the both of you. You immediately try to push him away and scrabble in the direction he threw it, but he holds tight to you. After a moment you realize that he's not just holding onto your coat, but he has his arms around your waist and he's… if you didn't know better, you'd say he's hugging you.

The thought makes you pause, and you look down at him. He's looking at you with fiercely pleading eyes, and… are those tears? There's only a trace of anger in his expression, and you can't fully tell but it doesn't seem directed at you.

No, this isn't right. He's not supposed to… do that. He's been toying with your emotions, pretending to care but not actually caring, pretending to feel something and then leaving because he doesn't. He doesn't _really_ care. Not about you.

His arms loosen, and your heart seizes because you're right, he doesn't care, but all he does is climb further up your lab coat and put his arms around your neck. He buries his bill into your shoulder, and you can _feel_ the wetness beginning to soak into your lab coat.

He's crying. Why is he crying?

"Perry the Platypus?" you ask, voice shaking a little. You don't know what to _do_ with this. You thought you knew where you stood, but… clearly, you were wrong.

He chirps, and it's a sorrowful, apologetic sound. You've never heard him apologize before.

Something in you breaks, and your eyes start to sting. You curl your arms around his tiny body and bury _your_ face in _his_ shoulder.

"Don't leave me, Perry the Platypus," you say. The words fall out of your mouth without your permission, wavering from the emotion that you've been trying to suppress flooding your body.

He shakes his head, just slightly, and tightens his arms around your neck.

You let yourself cry into his shoulder.

* * *

Here's the start of my longer pieces! This one actually flowed pretty well, and I'm happy with how it turned out. I hope you enjoyed!

Title from Aftermath by Adam Lambert


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